Margaret Weis - Dragon Wing

“Your life now! The barls then!” Stephen hissed through clenched teeth. Hugh took a step toward the door.

“Half now!” Stephen’s words were a gasp, almost incoherent. Hugh, bowing in acquiescence, turned back to face the king.

“Who’s the victim?”

Stephen drew a deep breath. Hugh heard a clicking, catching choke in the king’s throat, a sound vaguely similar to the rattle in the throats of the dying.

“My son,” said the king.

Hugh was not surprised. It had to be somebody close to His Majesty, to account for all the intrigue and secrecy. The Hand knew Stephen had an heir to the throne, nothing more than that. Judging by the king’s age, the kid must be eighteen, twenty cycles. Old enough to get into serious trouble.

“The prince is here, in the monastery. We”—Stephen paused, trying to moisten a dry tongue—“have told him his life is in danger. He believes you are a nobleman in disguise, hired to take him to a secret hiding place where he will be safe.” Stephen’s voice cracked. Angrily he cleared his throat and resumed speaking. “The prince will not question this decision. He knows well enough what we say is true. There are those who are a threat to him—”

“Obviously,” said Hugh.

The king stiffened, the chain mail clinked, and Stephen’s sword rattled in its sheath.

The courier, with a whispered, “Restrain yourself, Your Majesty!” swiftly interposed his body between that of the king and the assassin.

“Remember, sir, whom you are addressing!” Trian rebuked. Hugh ignored him. “Where am I to take the prince, Majesty? What am I to do with him?”

“I will provide you with the details,” Trian answered. Stephen had apparently had enough. His nerve was failing him. He stalked past Hugh toward the door, turning his body slightly so that he avoided touching the assassin. He probably did it unconsciously, but the Hand, recognizing the affront, smiled grimly in the darkness and struck back.

“There is a service I offer all my clients, Majesty.” Stephen paused, hand on the door handle. “Well?” He did not look around.

“I tell the victim who is having him killed and why. Shall I so inform your son, Majesty?”

The chain mail jingled softly; a tremor shook the man’s body. But Stephen’s head remained unbowed, his shoulders straight. “When the moment comes,” he said, “my son will know.”

Stiff-backed, straight-shouldered, the king walked into the corridor; Hugh heard his footsteps receding in the distance. The courier moved to stand next to the Hand, not speaking until he heard—in the distance—the sound of a door slam shut.

“There was no call to say that,” said Trian softly. “You wounded him deeply.”

“And who is this ‘courier,’” returned Hugh, “who hands out the monies of the royal treasury and worries about a king’s feelings?”

“You are right.” The young man had turned slightly toward the window and Hugh could see him smile. “I am not a courier. I am the king’s magus.” Hugh raised an eyebrow. “Young, aren’t you, Magicka?”

“I am older than I appear,” answered Trian lightly. “Wars and kingship age a man. Magic does not. And now, if you will accompany me, I have clothing and supplies for your journey, as well as the information you require. This way.” The wizard stood aside to allow Hugh to pass. Trian’s manner was respectful, but the Hand noted that the wizard was deftly blocking the corridor down which Stephen had passed with his body. Hugh turned in the direction indicated. Trian paused to pick up the glowlamp, removed the screen, and walked near Hugh, hovering close at his elbow.

“You must, of course, look and act the part of a nobleman, and we have provided suitable costume. One reason you were chosen is the fact that you are gently born, though not acknowledged. There is a true air of aristocracy about you that is inbred. The prince is highly intelligent and would not be fooled by a clod in expensive clothes.”

After a short walk of no more than ten steps, the wizard brought Hugh to a halt outside one of the many doors lining the corridor. Using the same iron key, Trian inserted it into the lock and the door opened. Hugh stepped inside, and they traversed a corridor that ran at an angle to the first. This corridor was not as well-kept as the former. The walls were crumbling. Footing was treacherous on the cracked floor, and both Hugh and the wizard trod carefully and cautiously. Turning left, they entered another corridor; another left turn brought them to a third. Each successive corridor was shorter than the one previous. They were, Hugh recognized, moving deeper into the building’s interior. After this, they began a series of zigs and zags-turns taken seemingly at random. Trian talked the entire way.

“It was advisable that we learn all we could about you. I know that you were born on the wrong side of the sheets following your father’s liaison with a serving wench, and that your noble father—whose name, by the way, I was unable to discover—cast your mother out into the streets. She died during the elven attack on Firstfall and you were taken in and raised by Kir monks.” Trian shuddered. “It must not have been an easy life,” he said in a low undertone with a glance at the chill walls that surrounded them.

Hugh saw no need to comment and so kept silent. If the wizard thought to confuse or distract him by this conversation and the circumvolved route they were taking, Trian was not succeeding. Kir monasteries are built generally along the same plans—a square inner courtyard surrounded on two sides by the monks’ cells. On the third side were housed those who served the monks or, like Hugh, orphans taken in by the order. Here, too, were the kitchens, the “study” rooms, and the infirmary. . . .

. . . The boy lying on the straw pallet on the stone floor tossed and turned. Though it was bitterly cold in the dark, unheated room, the child’s skin burned with an unnatural heat and he had, in his convulsive struggles, thrown aside the thin blanket used to cover his bare limbs. A second boy, some years older than the sick child, who appeared to be about nine cycles, entered the chamber and stared pityingly down at his friend. In his hands, the older boy carried a bowl of water. Placing it carefully upon the floor, he knelt beside the sick child and, dipping his fingers into the water, dabbled the liquid onto the dry, fever-parched lips.

This seemed to ease the child’s suffering. His thrashings stopped and his glazed eyes turned to see who cared for him. A wan smile spread over the thin, pale face. The older boy, with an answering smile, tore a piece of fabric from his ragged clothes and placed it in the water. Wringing it out, careful not to waste a drop, he sponged the child’s hot forehead.

“It’ll be all right—” the older boy started to say, when a dark shadow loomed over them, a cold and bony hand grasped his wrist.

“Hugh! What are you doing?” The voice was chill and dank and dark as the room.

“I—I was helping Rolf, Brother. He has the fever and Gran Maude said that if it didn’t break he’d die—”

“Die?” The voice shook the stone chamber. “Of course he will die! It is his privilege to die an innocent child and escape the evil to which mankind is heir. That evil which daily must be scourged from our weak shells.” The hand forced Hugh to his knees. “Pray, Hugh. Pray that your sin in attempting to thwart the ancestor’s will by performing the unnatural act of healing be forgiven you. Pray for death—”

The sick child whimpered and stared up at the monk in fear. Hugh flung aside the hand that held him down. “I’ll pray for death,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “I’ll pray for yours.”